


Victory Garden

by yelde



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII: Advent Children
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Introspection, Tifa Week 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:49:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24116803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yelde/pseuds/yelde
Summary: Because you can run from something and to something all at once.Happy Mother's Day.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Cloud Strife
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	Victory Garden

Tifa runs until her lungs throb and her feet numb and her heart hammers. Then she runs some more. The music in her ears sputters and tinkles with chimes and chords and the feedback of bass and guitar crashing, crashing over her, drawing her into a rhythm and out of her thoughts. The sun shines bright and low in front of her and the sky encroaches in a hundred shades of blue and yellow and white as the path before her goes on. This is hers to take and the only time she truly wants to be alone. Running is a drain and a smarter woman with two young children and two teenagers would call it self-delusion. Throwing one’s body at a problem again and again when the body was never the problem is a Strife family tradition. 

Past the glade and over the hill to the edge of the plains and in sight of the dismal desert. It’s far enough away that she’ll be back home just before nightfall. When she finally reaches the halfway point the music has died and swelled and died again. So she changes the track on the player velcroed to her bicep. Country, swing, hip hop, jazz, even a few metal anthems for when something needs punching. She settles on one from his playlist, foreign and atmospheric. It’s new and new is good enough. Her dusty running shoes grip and turn as her muscles fire her back down the trail the way she came. The hormones swimming in her blood as her body tries to calm against the ache of her pace. For a little bit at least.

Nature is breathing all around her, green and yellow and brown with specks of purple and white and red to delight the eye, a languid contrast to the staccato in and out of her lungs. The music is quieter now and she can hear the vehicles of the city as their motors spool in the distance. Once upon a time she would run as a girl of the mountains. Gravity pulled her away from that, tumbling down from a great height. She’s always been stubborn though so she kept running. In truth, she doesn’t miss the inclines that sapped her lungs or the declines that battered her knees. Only a matter of miles and she’ll be in their arms again. A matter of minutes and she’ll be home again. Never close enough. It’s important to remember why she runs.

At the edge of town is a victory garden. Things are growing in the dirt again. There was one like it back in the mountains. Back then her childish hands poked at the dirt. The dirt slipped out of her hand and onto momma’s casket. The one that burped her, fed her, and kissed her cheeks. The one that taught her piano and love and patience for a world that had none of it. 

This garden here is nicer than her memories. She brings her children here where they can giggle and plant herbs and harvest tomatoes and cucumbers. Warm hands and dainty bangles and vintage eyes dance about her thoughts and she knows it's her family's guardian angel. Problem is she’s selfish and doesn’t want to cede anything else to the fucking planet. How about instead her friend is alive and telling jokes and has her own children and they can have lunch and go shopping tomorrow. Why don’t you not break his heart every time he thinks about … The choir oohs in her ears. Her heart beats a little slower, eyes glisten a little more. How near, how far. 

The sun’s gotten low and everything’s got that pink and gold hue to it. Birds flying about, but she can’t hear them above the din of the drums. She doesn’t want to think about it today. The dirt gives way to asphalt and it’s not that far now. The kids are crowded around the table by now, she’s sure. It’s hotter in the city and she can feel the sweat sliding away from her. The newsstand man tries not to ogle her, waving behind his bushy beard and she waves back. Pick up the pace. 

Twelve blocks away and it catches up to her.

Tifa.

“That’s me.” She mutters between breaths and her feet claw inside her shoes. Those eyes are in her childhood bedroom as she curls in on herself in selfish pity. She’s back at the bottom of that ravine with blood on her hands. The violins sing. That face is shyly watching her from the corner of his gaze at the top of the well. You could have been his friend, but it’s easier to pretend, right? Come back and save me sometime and I might smile at you. She’s in the reactor bleeding out. Most important thing in his life and she doesn’t remember. 

Cloud. 

Run faster. Never fast enough. It’s all over her from Seventh Heaven to the Northern Crater to the Midgar ruin. Barret and Aerith and Avalanche and Cloud and Marlie and Denz and her babies. There are other faces too and they make her laugh and cry and gasp all at once. They have names and stories and some are a phone call away and some she’ll never see again. She’s sure she’s crying behind her sunglasses, but the music is all the way up now and she’s gliding over the pavement. The world, so desperate in its accounting, is going to break it all up in the end. But it brought them together in the first place. Trumpets and woodwinds soar. That face, those eyes, the soul that kissed her senseless under the stars. Even now a little broken, but aren’t they both? Love, love, love. She thought she knew, but she had no idea! It’s all out of her system by the time she crosses the last block. 

Then a delivery truck careens on to the sidewalk. Tifa flips and jumps the hood in one motion. The tears are gone. 

Not today.

Tifa Strife stares down dragons and space aliens and makes her appointments for bath time. She will not bend to a fucking pickup. She gives the driver a look that threatens a concussion and moves on. Not enough time in the day to waste energy meant for the ones she loves. 

She’s in the garage and the motorcycle and the minivan and the kids bicycles are all in place. His sword and her gloves are by the door and she grabs the towel off the wall. She throws it over her head and sits on the stairs into the house, catching her breath. The door opens and a bottle of cold water materializes over her shoulder. She looks up and into those eyes and the song ends.

“Mom’s home!”

Her victory garden awaits.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading.


End file.
